Chapter VI: Part 6

_April 17th._ Clouds did all clear away, but how they did it is a mystery to me. The morning came bright, cool and fair with rising glass and light airs drifting from southeast. We were away at 6:30 and with Southport only 20 miles ahead were able to drop care and worry and enjoy as perfect a bit of sailing as we have had for many a day. Have been figuring on this chance of the April moon for a long time and drove up the coast to be on hand. This outside run should always be made by little boats on the full of the moon. Not so much because of the light as for the high tide in late afternoon which makes inlet running so much easier. The sea, except for a heaving bit of ground swell, was smooth and good to look at. The sky without a cloud, the sun warm. I am already suspecting it for a breeder and making my guesses as to how long the chance will last. To run an inlet tonight or push her through with hope of Beaufort at noon tomorrow? At this writing, 2 p.m., and just after running the Cape Fear slew, I have a notion that my old fondness for getting little boats along will keep me pegging at it tonight. I wouldn’t mind seeing a few clouds. Don’t much like a cloudless sky, scalding sun and rising glass in April. Still, the land don’t loom and there is a breeze. If it was dead calm I would run Wrightsville Inlet sure. Who said I was old? Am no older than you are, and of course when I reached Wrightsville Inlet and saw the pretty night ahead and thought of the alternatives if I stopped, I just sort of naturally kept a-going. As pretty a night as ever seen. We were some bothered on account of launch stuffing box springing a leak which necessitated bailing every half hour and would have caused no end of trouble in case of a breeze of wind. Beyond this, there was little worry except when about midnight wind hauled northeast and it was for several hours a question whether it would pipe on hard or not. It remained very light and with the sea smooth, stopped us little. A big moon in a cloudless sky made things almost as bright as day and we jogged on without incident until the light broke in the east. On making the beach, we found our dead reckoning all O.K., and about ten o’clock pushed our way against a strong ebb tide into Beaufort. In catching and accepting this chance we completed the run of 250 miles in the running time of 50 hours and total time of 77 hours. It took us one month to cover it going down. It is a wonderfully interesting stretch of country and seacoast. If the right fellow was here right now, in spite of the fact that I have had but one hour’s sleep in the last 30 hours, I would gladly go over it again. I feel I am only just beginning to learn how to do it properly. It is the most tremendously lonesome thing you can think of. Not a sail or a boat do you see unless it be some motor yacht streaking it for harbor. We saw just two of them. Now and then little local trading boats with motors sneak quickly from one inlet to another like a mouse from hole to hole, and sometimes a fisherman launches his skiff from the beach, but for the most part you are alone, entirely alone. To the east, the big Atlantic lies with its constant heaving swell; to the west the low beach broken only by the inlets marked by the white breakers on the bar sometimes a mile or more to sea. Turtles, great, big, seagoing ones, we did see four of, and one so close we might have noosed it if we had been ready. I wish the right man would come along and say, “Here, take me with you, build any kind of outfit you want, all expenses will be paid and it will be worth your while, too. Just show me how to get pleasure out of this kind of thing.” If he was game I bet I could give him a run for his dollar.

_April 19th._ Turned out feeling as bright as a button, all sewed on. Thought a week ago that when I reached Beaufort I would stay, perhaps a week, for with its big fishing fleet coming and going daily, it is a lively, busy cup of tea. Now that we are here, however, we both find the constant noise of motors so damnable that we want to get straightaway back to the sticks where with the coons and wildcats a man can get his rest. We may go to Stumpy Point again, but I have a notion that the people of Stumpy are like some Boston folks who eternally spend their vacations at the same summer hotel. Very estimable, industrious and sober. Of great worth to the community, but la, la, la, Oh! la, la, la.

_April 20th._ Breeze came cold northeast with the sun and we congratulated ourselves on making good the chance of getting here. We know at least four boats that must be trying to get up from Charleston. I have no worry unless broken down. We were away by nine o’clock but the breeze and tide were so strong dead ahead, that in the narrow dredged cutting leading across the big shallow bay which forms Beaufort’s back yard, we were helpless and had to anchor for turn of tide. We were under way once more about two p.m. and had no difficulty in picking our way by the different ranges which in the clear air we easily found. Passed the point where we grounded in the fog on way down and entered canal leading northward towards Pamlico. Here we saw the last of our palmetto scrub which last December we hailed with glee as a sure sign we were getting to the southland. Pesky little did we then know where we were going. Beyond the canal a pretty river beginning to take on the appearance of approaching Christianity with its banks heavily wooded with pine. The strong northeaster grew mighty cold as the sun dropped low in the sky, the color of the bloom on a Concord grape, and we were both of a shiver as we dropped hook in a little branch, down which the big moon flooded its silver light between the darkly wooded shores.

_April 21st._ Gloriously fine but with singing breeze still at northeast. No use poking my nose out into Pamlico. Get it blown off sure. It is great to be able to just loaf and take it easy, for we have caught up our time and can afford to. The wind softened in afternoon and taking the launch we wandered far up into the creek and found the piney woods folks who were raising stock on what they called the “reedy lands” which offered forage the year round. Here once more was the peace and content writ upon the faces; plain for those to see who will but come and look. I wonder if such peace comes to those who live where the tide ebbs and flows as comes to mountain folk. Where has been the nursery of our biggest minds?

The night came calm and still, and the big moon rose on the peace of the world which so very many never see.

_April 22nd._ Colder than blazes all night and woke to a heavy land fog enshrouding everything. Regular chills and fever stuff and think better be moseying along to more open waters. Mighty shivery to us who have but just left summer’s warmth. Yesterday we picked ripe, wild strawberries, so I have a notion there are warmer times in store. Think this country hereaway should certainly be looked over for its shooting and hunting. As at Stumpy Point the “bars ketch up all the hoags” and there are deer, possum, coon, fox and wildcat. Above all there is vast country in which to roam. I would bring a double-walled tent, set it up near some village and keep my own quarters getting some local hunter to pilot me.

We were soon off and in light airs stretched down to Neuse River and across to little town of Oriental, where sent a telegram and bought a fine shad just landed from the traps. Then away in freshening southeast breeze. Kept launch humming at it until the short, quick seas began breaking over her stern, for we had pretty long 40 mile road to travel before reaching Wysocking Bay on west shore. This Pamlico Sound may be inside waters but mark me it is a pernickety piece of thin-spread moisture. The shores low, we soon ran out of sight and bowled along as if in mid-ocean until a cast of the lead gave us but 15 feet of water. The Mascot is in no ways fitted for the work here and a right smart breeze would put her at once out of business. The local boats are, as usual, about the ticket. Rather narrow for length, slack bilge and easily driven with small sail. The sea picks up and beats at you as if it were a succession of stony walls and Mascot beamy, short and heavily sparred simply flounders helplessly about. We had rather uncomfortable work making Wysocking Bay just at nightfall. We overran our log and, getting mixed on the bearing of the lighthouse, found ourselves driving along in six feet of water with combing seas precious near in cockpit. Finally got straightened out and ran in under the land to an anchorage, but it was 8:30 before we sat down to fried shad and potatoes and H. most too tired to pick out the bones. Guess must rest up my crew a little in Manteo.

_April 23rd._ Comes fair with wind hauled to southwest a-breezing right on. Had visit from local old codger who said he did a lot of shooting. Deer in summer, geese in winter. He allowed he didn’t want nothing to do with “bar.” Just naturally didn’t fancy ’em. He hunted his deer by turning on a dog and butchering the critter when it took to the water. Said he would be glad to put us up for a hunting trip any time. Could easily accommodate four of us because he had a good house with only himself, wife and daughter, and had _four_ beds. Me for my own tent or boat in this country. Like the good people of Stumpy, he had never seen a woolen muffler or sweater and couldn’t keep his hands off of them. To his mind they seemed the very essence of comfort and warmth. Think a little trading voyage along here in fall of the year might pay expenses. We tucked single reef in and then it was

Up sail, off and away,
Balance partners, all chassé.

We stormed it along all day with short, sharp following sea which made us give launch a painter long enough to reach into next county. On that she towed like a bird. We passed Stumpy without going in, for a second visit would but spoil first impressions. Everywhere were the fish traps and had to keep constant watch not to get inside the outside trap which is often three or four miles from shore. These traps add a distinct danger to navigation in these waters. If overblown you cannot seek shelter and smooth water under a weather shore, but must stay outside and bang away at it. To get mixed up in a set of stakes and net is a very pernickety proposition. We had to guess the laneway between nets some 3 miles away from the creek which forms the fisherman’s harbor of Roanoke Marshes. We hit it right and dropped hook to quiet anchorage in midst of a busy settlement of tiny fish shanties. We were at once boarded by the population which made itself thoroughly at home and roosted about watching us cook and eat our supper. We tried to get a little information as to harbors at Roanoke Is. just across the sound, and sailing directions for any port are given something like this. “It’s this a-way. Youse all keep in the middle between the two pints close to the south pint. When youse all gets up in a little, youse will see a fish house to the northard and a little island. Go either side of the island, but there ain’t no water on the south side since a year gone by last Thanksgiving. No, I reckon it was Christmas when we had the big tide that wrecked Simmon’s wharf. When by the island just steer for the big tree and look out for the shoal ground off the fish house. Say, how much water might youse all be drawing?”

“Three and one-half feet.”

“Well, I swan, you can’t get in thar noways for there ain’t more’n 2 feet water anywhar.”

_April 24th._ We were off and following caution to keep about middle of creek we soon piled her high and dry in the mud. Had to drop sail, run out anchor and heave off with aid of launch. Then away for pleasant little 15 mile sail to Manteo on Roanoke Island. Manteo was good to look at. A rambling, scattering lot of houses with a nice little creek making the snuggest of harbors. From here we look across Roanoke Sound and see the back of Hatteras Beach with rounded sand dunes like mountains against the blue. Before we left Roanoke Marshes we were given a fine shad and tonight we had it smothered and then creamed. O, my. O, my. I wish youse all could have had some. Had lots of trouble cooking it because H. was catching crabs as big as soup plates and I had to keep rushing on deck to handle the net. Lots of Canada geese decoys swimming up and down creek and honking most cheerily. One old gander stands watch on the beach not 20 yds. away to guard his mate who has a nest under an old boat near by. Let any of the others come swimming too close and the old fellow with a sharp hiss is into the water and at ’em.

_April 25th._ Comes pretty as a picture. A truly wonderful spell of pleasant weather we are having. Up early. Put up a basket lunch and went ashore after breakfast to spend the day driving up island to see the site of Raleigh’s “Lost Colony” and the spot where Virginia Dare was born. We made a good day of it and enjoyed the shade of the woods and green of the trees. Except for electrics this was our first shore ride since leaving home. The country was like Cape Cod, and the roads deep with sand. Our little beach pony dragged the buggy around at a walk and we just kind of sot, and sot and then sot. When we got back to village we were bid to go out sturgeon fishing tomorrow. I guess H. will go, but the old man feels his age a bit and will let the young fry pull its heart out from 4 a.m. till noon. I have gained back two pounds of weight and my eyes are much better, so it’s me for the rural, quiet life.

_April 26th._ I put in a nice, quiet day shipping rope’s ends and getting out stock for a wire screen on fore hatch. H. turned up at 3 p.m., disgracefully hungry and tired. His day had been a great success. Very sporty get-a-way through triple line of breakers on the beach. A long day three miles at sea pulling heavy nets and catching all manner of strange fish, but no sturgeon. He wants to go again, and as I like it here, too, think we may stay. H. reports two litters wild razorbacks roaming the outside beach. This is interesting news and think must visit that part of country as reports say some of the shoats are red ones. In late afternoon we had a little crab picking bee and for supper crab flakes on toast. Don’t it beat all?

_April 27th._ Sunday and no noise of motorboats for Sunday down here is Sunday in very truth. The morning came with nice, soft rain from southwest hauling westerly and with lifting cloud. Gave our special orders to the grill-room and sat down to breakfast. Coffee, hot buttered toast, H. fried oysters and crab flakes in cream for me. The oysters have turned milky and have little taste but make a pretty good fry still. Visits from fishermen in afternoon and the sun coming out brightly we joined a motorboat party to Nag’s Head on the Hatteras Beach. Had a fine chance to see the sand dunes which seem to me much more beautiful and remarkable than those of Provincetown. Here, like the cone of Vesuvius, they rise from the very sea level and stand out alone against the sky. From Manteo at sunset they are like rose-tinted, snow-covered mountains against the deep blue eastern sky of a southern twilight. They move up and down the shore with the gales, and under one big fellow now lies completely hidden a little hotel just back of the fishing village of Nag’s Head.

_April 28th._ Comes fine in spite of a barometer that tumbled four points yesterday. H. off early again with the sturgeon fishermen. I at work on ship’s duties and making fly screens. By noon, squall clouds made up. Wind hauled northeast and blew freshly. Guess it’s all right, but wish little Asticot was back. He came back all right, having had fine time and helping catch a sturgeon which from sporting standpoint was nix as they just hauled him into the boat half drowned and rolled up in the gill net. They caught two big man-eaters about 14 ft. long and a 75 lb. green turtle. H. appeared on board with plenty of sturgeon steaks and the whole of the green turtle. We had the steaks for supper and they were fine. Sweet and tender but not a bit of taste like fish. More like the most tender veal.

_April 29th._ Saw us with kicker astern bucking all day against head winds and seas until we dropped anchor at Elizabeth City which is at mouth of the Paskotank River leading towards Dismal Swamp canal. Today we opened Mr. Turtle and got about 25 lbs. of meat. Am going to make soup and stews. Have the medicine chest open and within easy reach. Morphine, I think, will have the call.

_April 30th._ Whoop-ee!! I’m a wild horse. Never felt better in my life. Have turned H. out at 4:30 every morning for two weeks. Tried to show him the beauties of the “pride and glory of the day.” Might as well have talked to John the Orangeman. Bless his memory. Afraid he has no imagination and will buy him a peanut stand; stick candy and Coca-Cola on the side. Am rid of the old blue glasses and can see the world and look the clear, smart, cool northwester in the face. H. is shivering at the wheel with sweater, muffler and pants on. What is this new generation coming to, anyway? Green turtle soup is beginning to smell deliciously. Bet it’s food and drink. Corned sturgeon’s steaks for breakfast with Lyonnaise potatoes. Just like the Copley Plaza. All day winding along through the woods and straightway for 22 miles through the Dismal Swamp canal. Was tempted to stop midway of canal and in the launch run up and have a look at Lake Drummond, but having heard there was nothing to see but a big pond surrounded by endless swamp, we thought it better to take advantage of the beautiful day and jog along. We crossed the height of land and locked out at 5 p.m. This canal, with approaches, is more attractive than the Chesapeake and Albemarle route which we took last winter, but the latter is shorter.

Little engine going finely all day and in the calm of a beautiful spring evening we pushed down the little creek, entered the river, set our lights as darkness fell, and hauling along close to navy yard and the big battleships, we dropped anchor at 7 p.m. off the Norfolk Rowing Club. We are a total of 50 days from Miami with 31 sailing days for a distance, as crow flies, of about 1,000 miles. This means over 30 miles a day _average_, and, the size of boat considered, together with character of water passed through, makes it rather a remarkable record. Day after day we sailed farther than New Bedford to Boston, and, with exception of one night run outside, all runs were made by daylight.

[Sidenote: Map B.]

_May 1st._ Tripped anchor after breakfast and ran through the drawer into a little inner basin like the Charles River one on a smaller scale. It is called the Mowbray Arch Ghent, though why I have not yet discovered.

_May 2nd._ Fair and deliciously warm. None of the Cape Cod dampness on any of this trip. Leather shoes tucked away forward for the whole cruise turned out today without any mould whatever. Always a little dust when sweeping the cabin floor.

H. left me this afternoon to visit coal mines in West Virginia. It was hard to see him go. When his steamer sailed I was out in the launch to wave him good-bye. I guess it was just as well the steamer’s swash came along and gave me all I wanted to do to keep putt-putt right side up. Feelings, like stomach aches, are queer things. Am afraid he won’t come back quite my boy again. Sort of making a start on life’s cruise I fancy, and somebody else is going to be captain. He’ll help sail me home, tie me up to dock and then spread canvas and away. Quite right. I wouldn’t wish it otherwise and the master that gets him will know he’s got a man when the time comes. For H., this cruise has not been all a pleasant summer’s outing. Once or twice he has seen the edge of the big shadow not so very far away and has neither batted an eye nor quivered a lip. He’ll do. Bene, it is well.

Back to the boat a little lonesey and found many things to do pronto.

This Mowbray Arch is very lovely just at the close of day. As you look eastward, on the left is the stone embankment, green grass and trees; a bridge lit with lights in cluster spans the foreground and beyond in soft mist the city and little church with square topped belfry. On the right, the city with its lights and in the dark shadow are wharves with barges, derricks, lighters and little tugs. Don’t you get it? It is the Seine, Tuilleries, Pont Neuf, Notre Dame and the Quartier, all in miniature. It was all very beautiful as I ate my Turtle soup and sipped my glass of iced, Clysmic water.

_May 3rd._ You hear me howl. Turtle soup, Madeira with iced Clysmic may be the proper food for a dry cruise, but for nightmares it makes beer and Swiss cheese look like “also rans.” I saw things last night that beat any contraptions this cruise has yet furnished. Got a bump like a pigeon’s egg over my right eye where I tried to break a deck frame and am expecting complaints from shore as a public nuisance. Bet a noggin of New England rum would have kept the critter quiet. That soup is sure awful good and filling and I’ve got some more brewing now. Don’t know whether I dare tackle it again or not. Wouldn’t like to see those things again for anything, although I disremember just what they looked like now.

I have been four days alone on the boat living very quietly and peacefully in the Arch of Mowbray Ghent. That name is good. I find myself repeating it often. The place is good and I like it much. First along I looked at the conglomerated architecture of the houses of “the best people” and watched the children of Mammon play at the game called “automobiling.” They seem to get lots of fun out of it, play it all day and sometimes late into the night. They scream and laugh more when they play it at night. Sometimes I wonder. I am a little tired of the houses which make me think of the stern of the launch, mostly paint, putty and copper tacks. Across the stream it is more interesting. Buckeyes with long raking masts, coal barges with slow-moving, lazy niggers unloading cargo, and sometimes letting go a wild bit of wailing song. The draw opens often to give a glimpse of the outer harbor with its crowd of shipping half-hidden in the haze of smoke from many stacks. I have rather dreaded these days with the expected calls from shore people, and the invitations to breakfasts, lunches and suppers to follow. “Nix on it Mutt.” I might as well be in Patagonia for all the visitors I have had. A man who lives fifty yards away stopped one evening to see if I would pump out his motorboat in case she wanted to make a sink of it. When I explained it wasn’t my pumping night he went away. I asked a very blonde young man with red cheeks, paddling a green canoe, “the color scheme not bad at all”; what was the meaning of the name of the place? He replied that the promoters named it, and he thought “Ghent” was English, but had never heard who Mowbray was. I asked him aboard, and was going to suggest a lighter green for the canoe in the way of complete harmony with pink cheeks, but he muttered some excuse and paddled off down stream like the white rabbit in “Alice through the Looking Glass.” The “Best People” of Boston who don’t live, but dwell at Beverly and Manchester, would at least have sent word by the head gardener that they wished I would go away. Yankee inquisitiveness would prompt investigation; southern courtesy would compel a call--but here it is neither one thing nor the other. A sort of neutral zone where nobody seems quite certain of his own individuality.

Today the wind is light, southerly, soft with misty air. I can’t just tell whether the mist is due to weather or to the sickening sweetish smell which comes from the rotting refuse of the crab and oyster houses. What people are these who can daily face a breakfast table with such a nuisance in their front yard? For last four nights I have dined superbly on dry toast and turtle soup. I found I was making my brew too strong and so by diluting with half water I toned things to a point where I could eat all I wanted and not see great, long things covered with eelgrass. A truly wonderful soup experience it has been. Were it not for my 25th anniversary in June, I would be tempted to spread canvas and “ketch” me another green one off Hatteras. As regards high cost of living, it interests me some to figure up the expense of all my food on board for past week, since leaving Manteo, at 10 cents per day.

A fruit peddler gave me a tip on some jet black bananas ripened in the sun, which, on account of color he was offering for five cents a dozen. He threw in three more for good measure. They fairly melted in my mouth, and such a flavor. Last night I sliced some in sugar with a spoonful of sherry and stood them on deck. This morning I crawled out just at sunup and ate them cool with the coolness of the night and not at all the same thing as the cold of an ice-chest. They were so good I sliced up and ate some more and so spoiled the whole thing. It can’t be did _quick_ that a-way.

I am now going to write a lot about turtles. I know nothing about turtles, but want to remember this one and what I have thought about him, so skip it, skip it. When he came on board fresh from the sea he was the most delicate shade of milky, bluey green. Not a bit the green of clear, deep ocean water but more the wide shallows churned often by big waves. When the young green of silver-leafed poplars turns downsides upsides on a gray southerly morning you are hitting it mighty close. The shell, 19 × 18 inches, has now turned to a stunning mixture of grays, browns and purply reds. It will make a fine memento of the cruise. The head is the best. Have never had anything get me quite so strong. Was going to mount it all to the merry with pop eyes made with marbles, pipe in mouth, etc., etc., etc. For a week it has stood before me as it stands now on the centreboard box. Have watched the green go and the color of old ivory come. The solemn majesty of that face impresses me so that no indignity will come to it from me. The power and relentless strength of the ages past and yet to come is in the curve and hook of that half open, bony jaw. I will try to do some careful work on it, mount it with silver as a paperweight and give it to Henry as a keepsake. That head might lend courage to a man who found himself some night with head in arms at a table piled high with trouble. I like to wonder what yarns it could spin of its deep sea swimmings and warm floatings between the Tortugas and Cape Cod. That head has looked on strange sights, and that hook has maybe ripped its way into some pretty gruesome shadows. Mighty relentless is the face. If I thought he was on my trail at the dark of the moon I wouldn’t walk or I wouldn’t run, I’d fly, but he’d sure get me just the same. I’m mighty glad he didn’t die in vain for he made awful good soup and that is a pesky sight more than I will do.

_May 10th._ Norfolk. Henry came back this morning. Just as I thought and hoped it would be, there is nothing to it now but woods, mountains and narrow valleys with cutting and slashing in the woods, big black holes in the mountains and roar of cars and machinery in the valleys. It is high time my anchor was up, my last jib bent and I homeward bound. Away to nice northerly breeze right after lunch. Tack for tack down river with plenty of chance to look over the shipping at anchor. Four big six-masters in port. Fine, noble looking vessels. Took last look at Norfolk Harbor and made out into the choppy water of Hampton Roads. Norfolk Harbor is the best we have seen yet and no sailor need worry about entering it at night for right at the head of it and high in the air there is an enormous electric sign blazing like a southern cross. The sign reads

“Annheuser Busch
Budweiser”

and is a better mariner’s guide than any submarine bell. After nice, pretty afternoon sail we dropped hook in the bight back of Old Point Comfort.

_May 12th._ Comes clear and cold with Irishman’s hurricane. Beat the sun and kicked up my own son. Caught last of ebb out of Roads and was away up the beach with putt-putt. Fish traps everywhere and running miles and miles to sea. All rigged to leave a passage at end of each pound, so it was not hard to pick our way along shore. Broken trap poles, twenty to thirty feet long, water soaked and only just afloat, made things a bit interesting, but we got by and taking a fair tide and nice air at northeast we bowled her along smartly and put her to bed back of Cherry Pt. near Stingray Light at 5 o’clock, forty-five miles nearer home.

Everybody catching crabs on long trawls. Millions a day it must be. Had soft shells on toast for supper. Terribly good eating and never had anything to crumb itself so handily. Dip ’em in egg and then they do their own wriggling about in the crumbs. Fresh from the water they are mighty sweet and so juicy they explode in the pan, which endangers the life of the cook.

_May 13th._ Comes fair with wind hauled fresh southwest and every promise of a smashing good run. Up and off early. No strength or driving power to the wind, which coming off the land was hot and without zip. It soon petered out and we had to get kicker to work. This constant motor business gets mighty tiresome but it is mighty necessary here-a-way. Wind hauled by north and way around into east where it hung all day so lightly as to just keep sheets broad off and tripping on water. The sun poured down mighty hot and a swarm of flies invaded us, which even the screens failed to keep entirely out of the cabin. We crossed mouth of Potomac River under very different conditions from those last winter when the launch pulled adrift in the cold, driving norther. Had a strong head tide all day and couldn’t reason it out. I despaired after counting nine hours of its running. Weather didn’t look too good in afternoon and I was glad to slip into St. Jerome Inlet about four o’clock where we promptly went aground, and from the fish wharf as promptly came the drawling cry, “Come off as ye come on,” which we did in workmanlike shape, our Floridian experience counting for much in this line. Anchor down and we were at once boarded by visitors. From 5 o’clock until 9:30 there was no time when there weren’t from two to seven men perched like pelicans on cockpit railing. H. did good work and kept things going until we had our supper when I entered the game and lied steadily until they all left. H. complimented me on several brand new ones, but I feel he may as well pick up a few points for he may have to sell insurance himself some day.

_May 14th._ The night a bit stuffy with air filled with smoke. My chin-chin last night sort of started things going a bit and I passed an old-time restless night and had breakfast cooked and served by five o’clock this morning while H. was snoozing it out. The little inlet is most attractive and was at its best this morning with blue smoky air and fresh spring green. Yesterday we learnt something about the tides which in spring of the year on account of freshets inland and strong breezes often turn and run ebb for days at a time. We have also learnt something about the hardy fisherman of Chesapeake Bay and his wonderful seaworthy buckeye. Tell your folks “tain’t so.” On any light, fair day the bay is dotted with sail, but let the breeze prick on and in no time at all there is not a sail in sight. Every mother’s son of them scoots into his near-by harbor. Beyond a mile or two each way they have no knowledge of the shore, and are completely ignorant of where they are as compared to anywhere else. A sixteen year old boy on board yesterday asked us if we drew our own charts, and the captain of a fisherman had never heard of Hatteras and didn’t know how far it was to Norfolk or to Baltimore, and had never been to either. When duck shooting in the winter they still use carronades, but have a line and buoy hitched to them. The game warden always signals when he is coming and then they throw the carronade overboard so he won’t have to find it. If the warden failed to signal and did catch anyone, why they would just naturally have to shoot him up, so wardens become quite careful in the matter. When it comes to game and their rights to it, the West Virginian mountaineer and his whisky still has nothing over these beachcombers.

_May 15th._ Turned out 4:30 and away with kicker at 6. Coldish this morning, cloudy and light chilly air at north dead ahead. This western shore of Chesapeake is very beautiful indeed along here. High bluffs of reddish clay rimmed with a white sand beach and topped by heavy growth of pine and poplar. Little gullies between sharp hills to the water’s edge and in them the morning mists lie blue. Ideal camp conditions for an October cruise in a little sharpie. Would send her to Baltimore on steamer. Must try that some day when I grow a bit younger. Would want something light to pull on the beach and use my tent for shelter. Breeze freshened sharply to a wholesail outfit and sea made up at once. Nothing doing for Mascot who just jumped up and down. Would have lost patience with any other boat, but bless your heart, this boat is too good. An hour and wind was all gone, leaving a miserable hubble-bubble of a sea into which we plunged to the knightheads. After two hours things straightened out and we got kicker to work and finally, wind hauling fresh from south, we ran to good anchorage in Annapolis by 4 p.m.

_May 16th and 17th._ Annapolis in heavy northeast rain and blow.

_May 18th._ Were late turning out. Glass falling, wind dropping, rain stopping. Blow over, so up yank and off in dead calm about ten o’clock. Didn’t calculate to more than jog along a few miles, but breeze hauled out about south, sea smooth and beautifully blue under bright, clearing sky. Tide turned fair. The Maryland shore all beautifully green after the needed rain and first thing you know we had a bone in our teeth and were bruising water in great shape. It was as beautiful an afternoon’s sail as we have had the whole trip and at evening we anchored her in a little cove 55 miles from Annapolis and with the old Chesapeake behind us. No one who has not done it, can possibly appreciate what it means to follow up the spring along these shores. To leave that dreary, swamp-ridden land of Florida and slowly watch the spring unfold until here, with one big burst, it is around you in all its glorious beauty.

_May 19th._ The sweetest, prettiest spring morning that God’s sun ever shone on. The air so cool and fresh, the sunshine so bright and warm. The river narrow and bordered either by big overhanging trees or wide, sweeping meadows freshly green. Mile after mile as through an English land in June. We entered the Delaware and Chesapeake canal where it was still more beautiful with the Scotch broom a glorious yellow and all the other flowers nodding from the banks. The canal itself taking reflection of the mass of foliage was an indescribable, translucent green and all the world was wonderful. There is but one midway lock to this canal, and passing it we were in the basin of Delaware City by one o’clock. A waspish northerly air was blowing down Delaware River and tide was rushing ebb before it, so there was nothing to be done but wait. Wind slacked by night and tide setting fair by six we locked out and accepted our chance by the light of a full moon in cloudless sky. To quietly steal up a big, swiftly running river by moonlight is a grand thing to do, and when the river is full of the busy life of a great port it is mighty impressive from the cockpit of a little boat. Always on my tongue’s end was

“If upon your port is seen
A stranger’s starboard light of green,”

but rules of the road don’t apply as between ocean-going tugs with barges in tow, ocean steamships bound to sea, and 24 foot catboats. Not much they don’t, and it was me for the shadow of the shore and 15 feet of water or maybe less. At eleven o’clock we dropped hook among the yachts off the Corinthian Y. C. of Philadelphia, and after a good welch rarebit turned in more than satisfied with this two days’ trip from Annapolis.

_May 20th to 24th._ At Philadelphia off Clubhouse of Corinthian Y. C. where we received every courtesy and were made to feel quite at home. The old “square-faced” man at the Club asked me how the launch got so smashed up and when I told him of our experience in the inlet he replied “Dat outside run is tamned dangerous for de sailboats. De motorboats, dey takes one nice, calm days and goes right along, but de sailboats takes one nice calm days and day stays just there and when de next day comes dey gets racked. I have done so twict and I goes no more.” He hits it about right.

_May 24th._ We took the turn of the flood and with cloudy, squall-breeding skies were off up the Delaware. A good breeze at northwest helped along and we soon worked up through the crowded, busy section of the River off the wharves of the city. Then we came to the big, iron railroad bridge, to go under which at night had scared us so on the way down. It looked just as bad today and as we went at it I thought the mast must surely come out. Then on and on with the river growing more narrow and more beautiful with banks lined with finely kept lawns shaded by beautiful trees. And so with kicker, sail and tide we made the entrance to Delaware and Raritan canals at Bordentown where we locked in and tied up in the basin for the night.

_May 25th._ Sunday and no business done in the canal. Last night the sky faired clear and bright with a snap to the air almost of frost. I had an old-fashioned night and was up before the dawn. I moved about very quietly and only sang “Palm Branches” once, but it was enough, and H. turned out at five muttering something about wishing he could be in the sticks with coons and wildcats where he could get his rest. That boy seems to have no appreciation of music. A nice, quiet, beautiful day spent alongside the canal slip. Nothing to be mentioned except a picnic held by the mule drivers under a big tree across the canal. They foregathered about 9 a.m. and devoted themselves unreservedly to getting drunk. It was wonderful to see how quickly and how completely they accomplished their purpose. By noon, none of them could stand but they crawled about on hands and knees until four when everybody fell where he was. It began to rain at sundown, but when we turned in at nine we could still hear guttural attempts at song from the shadow of the tree.

_May 26th._ Were stirring early, but no earlier than the mule drivers who had spent a wet night across the stream. They were on hand with a fresh supply of bottled happiness and when we pulled our freight they were merrily starting in on another picnic. The day came bright and fair with everything looking spick and span after the night’s rain. Have looked forward to a day in this canal in springtime for many a year and was not disappointed. England, the Thames, and June come fairly near to what we saw today. In lots of ways this canal trip was raw and crude in comparison with the Thames, but it had points which seemed to me more beautiful. Thirteen locks and countless drawbridges made the day a busy one and we were ready to turn in early after tying up to a wharf in New Brunswick about seven in the evening. In late afternoon the wind hauled chill, northeast, and rain fell during the night.

_May 27th to 28th._ Lay New Brunswick in heavy northeaster.

_May 29th._ Faired away clear and cold northwest during night and this morning felt as brisk and snappy as it did last November, when we got our first ice on deck here. Provisioned up and then locked out of our last canal and started down Raritan River. It was blowing very smartly northwest, just how smartly I didn’t find out until I put single reef mainsail to her. A wooly came over the high shore and things began doing at once. Got the canvas off before we landed in a meadow, but it was close work. Tore a hole in the sail and turned everything upside down below. A glass jar full of roses turned a complete somersault and lit standing on the floor without spilling a drop of water or losing a rose. We tucked in another reef and then had all the rags we wanted. It was cut the pigeon’s wing all the way down the river. At the Perth Amboy drawbridges we had to drop peak for safety sake. When we shot through the second draw it meant the last one on this cruise.

[Sidenote: Map A.]

_May 30th._ Comes cool and pretty. Crew up and remarkably eager for business. Was shaking out reefs and hoisting sail before I had cabin done up. Coney Island is a wonderful attraction for little boys. Away under single reef with breeze pricking on. Good track, and horses trotting fast. Went down the Staten Island shore fluke-o. Mighty different going from what we found on same stretch last November. Breeze pricked on so determinedly we laid her to and clapped in double reef which gave us handsome canvas. Away and across the big river with the ocean liners steaming to sea and the towers of Coney Island ahead. Dropped hook off Atlantic Yacht Club just in time to see it go into commission for the season. Pretty sight, with guns banging, bunting fluttering. Busy mending torn mainsail and in ship duties all afternoon. Dolled up and to Coney Island for supper for the evening. Spent it on roller coasters and shoot the chutes. There was a big crowd, it being Memorial Day, but everybody happy and orderly. Enough rum to sink a ship, but nobody the worst for wear.

_May 31st._ Got away by noon on turn of the tide and worked up river. Started into East River with kicker astern and no sail as breeze was ahead and flukey. Got by Governor’s Island and ran right into a most pernickety tide rip. Things began doing immediately if not sooner. Mascot lost steerage way and started turning around and round while tide swept us down onto a loaded barge at a Brooklyn dock. Got H. into launch and started it backwards with just power enough to stop her from crashing bowsprit on barge. Then we drifted helplessly alongside, but the backwater acted like a cushion and while we surged up to within a few inches of those iron shod fenders we just didn’t strike and when tide washed us the whole length of barge, I stepped off and caught a line to a bit and so we swung her into the slip unhurt. It was just as near to wreck and sinking as you can come and not do it. To have hit that barge one clip would have stove us from stern to stem and we were missing it only by inches at every lunge. For a short ring turn to, it did beat all. “What next,” says I. H. about this time said just a little more than necessary about waiting for tide to slack or until next day when traffic was less. Had he been a hired man, I might have said something. Wished I could have steadied her with the sail but to spread it in that rip was simply to tear it out of her, so I got H. into the launch and with a good long towline made another start and fetched clear all right although I rolled good, wet water over both cockpit railings and H. did some most extraordinary high jumping in putt-putt. From then on down to Hell Gate, it was back and forth across the river trying to find a way between the rips and avoid being swept into the docks. Everybody on tugs and steamers had a wave of the hand for H. who was clinging on for dear life with one hand and hauling tiller line with the other. With Mascot lunging and rolling along behind it was a very pretty game to keep enough steerageway on the launch to be able to meet the combing seas as they came along from every quarter. The steamers all knew it was a sporting proposition and gave him a good berth for we were quite powerless to do more than keep away from the docks. It is no fitting place for small sailboats and I would never try it again unless towed behind a barge or very early in morning before traffic gets busy. We swept through Hell Gate all right and thinking things were quiet enough, put launch astern. In five minutes we were spinning top in another rip and before we could get Mascot in hand we ran over a big spar buoy which tore the rudder off the putt-putt, but fortunately didn’t smash the propeller as H. was on the job and shut off engine before we struck. Then to a quiet anchorage off the Knickerbocker Y. C. station at College Point.

Here we found the 60 foot motor houseboat _Buffalo_ which we have seen very often during the winter. The owner’s wife came over presently and told us her husband had been down three weeks with pneumonia but was now sitting up and wanted us to come on board for a gam, which we did. He and wife have lived on the boat for years, and charter it to go south in winters and cruise north in the summer time. She does the cooking for the outfit and he tends engine and runs boat. He was the first one we have seen to really know the game up and down the coast, as he had done it for years. He told us we were the only boat he had ever known to make the trip both ways under sail. He said he made a very good living but that motorboating was about the same as driving an electric car and in the end would turn a man to drink. We were to go over in morning and do a few things about the boat, for the wife has had busy days playing cook, crew and nurse for three weeks on a big boat. My hat is off to her.

_June 1st._ Lay at anchor.

_June 2nd._ Waked at 4 a.m. to find pouring rain and brisk breeze. Wind hauled quickly to northwest and pricked on a regular spring tartar. Quite a jump of sea and run of tide with everybody doing the ladies’ change. Tide turned and wind easing, we were under way with single reef and had the prettiest sail ever, eight miles down East River to Port Washington where anchored with fleet of well-kept yachts and most attractive houseboats. I have an idea the houseboat game is bound to grow. There is a lot in it.

_June 3rd._ Comes calm and fair. Looks mighty homelike to be once more surrounded by a fleet of well-kept yachts. Seemed as if I was in public garden pond for next to us was a motorboat named Leda and if that isn’t a swan-boat then mythology ain’t so. Breeze came light and pretty at southwest so we up sail and after taking a look at pretty Manhasset Bay, squared away down the shore and by three in afternoon were at snug anchor in Oyster Bay. We have beaten the spring lately and find here the scrub-oaks only in their young green. The highlands along here are just now at their very best and beautiful houses are snugged in among wonderful trees. The little bays make far into the green-clad hills and it is all very tempting to stay and loiter.